


Five times John lost Harold, and one time he found him

by idinink



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:26:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7713211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idinink/pseuds/idinink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six stories. Some short, some not so short. Some unhappy endings, some (well, one) not so unhappy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Unless otherwise indicated, all stories take place at some amorphous time during seasons 2-4. Rinch if you want.

It would have hurt. The way they’d tied him up. Bound at the wrists, arms over his head, shoes only skimming the plush carpet. After a certain amount of time, holding almost any position is—was—painful for Harold. But this, this would have hurt immediately and only gotten worse. Even when his arms and shoulders went numb, the strain on his spine would have kept burning, an electrical fire that wouldn’t go out.

Maybe that’s why his face—eyes still open behind glass lenses—looks so calm. Maybe the glint of the gun barrel had been a relief. 

The blood is still wet and bright against the pastels of Harold’s summer-weight shirt and waistcoat; John is only twenty minutes too late. Give or take. Two bullets, small caliber, close range. Low in the chest: liver and lungs. Either the shooter had a shaky hand, or they had wanted to make him bleed out slowly, to drown. To suffer. Too bad for them; one of the medications Harold takes—took—thin his blood. It wouldn’t have taken very long.

Red Rorschach blots bloom on the crisp white of John’s shirt as he hugs Harold one-armed and cuts him down. The stiff arms fall heavily, thumping against John’s back like flogs. Harold drops against his chest and John slowly sinks to the floor, pulling Harold close and wrapping his other arm around him. He feels cold wire-rim frames biting into his neck, bristles of hair tickling his ear.

John supposes he should close Harold’s eyes. But they’re in a high-rise penthouse, it’s nighttime, and the window in front of them overlooks the New York skyline, lit up like a monstrous, beautiful carnival. Harold would have loved the view from this eyrie: the silence, the dizzying height, the lonely thrill of ascension.


	2. Flood

 

As they carry him to the car, Harold murmurs “oh dear” over and over until suddenly he can’t talk anymore.

Swearing in the driver’s seat, Fusco has them moving before John gets both feet inside. They lay Harold out on the backseat, his head in Root’s lap. Shaw straddles him, fingers buried in the biggest knife-wound, feeling for the bleeder to pinch it shut. John kneels on the floor, putting pressure on the smaller slashes. Root has Harold’s face between her hands, talking and talking at him, her voice nothing but noise in John’s ears.

Harold doesn’t seem to be listening to her, either. He’s looking at John, his face so _surprised._ None of them had imagined their thirteen-year-old Number was the _perpetrator_.

John can’t look away, not even when he feels Harold’s hand on his own — slick fingers wrapping around his wrist and tugging weakly. John shakes his head, mouthing words. Something, he thinks, like: _no, I can’t, I’m sorry, Harold, Harold, I’m sorry._ John can’t hold Harold’s hand right now. He’s too busy holding Harold’s stomach together.

So Root takes his hand instead. John thinks the noises coming from her aren’t words anymore, but he can’t be sure. Harold’s other hand grasps its way to John’s shoulder, then the side of his neck. It doesn’t stay there; just long enough to push red fingerprints into the skin of his jaw before dropping to hang heavily at his side.

Traffic screams around them; Fusco is driving the stolen old Chevy like it’s a squad car with sirens blaring. Shaw has gone rigid, holding very still, sweat dripping from her face with the effort — she must have gotten a grip on the artery.

But Harold’s face just keeps getting whiter. He starts blinking, sharp snaps of his eyelids that grow sluggish as his breathing shallows. He keeps his eyes on John’s face until gravity pulls them down, away, his gaze bottoming out somewhere deep and undiscovered.

Shaw doesn’t give up. She guides John’s fingers into Harold’s abdomen, shows him where to squeeze. Then she starts compressions, counting in whispers, puffs of her breath stirring floating errant strands of Root’s hair.

“You’re gonna breathe for him,” she tells John. “Okay? Ready... _now.”_

He seals Harold’s mouth under his own and blows, eyeing the gentle, artificial rise of his chest. He tastes blood and sweet green tea. Their caseload has been particularly stressful lately, and Harold has been indulging himself with two, sometimes even _three_ sugars.

“Again,” Shaw gasps. Her arms are beginning to tremble but the compressions stay strong, smooth, steady as clockwork.

“Again.”

“Again.”

Root reaches tentatively for Shaw’s arm when one of Harold’s ribs goes. Shaw shakes her off with a snarl.

 _“Again,”_ she says, showing her teeth. 

John obeys. He doesn’t mind waiting. This is something Shaw needs; she’ll stop when she’s ready to. And then John can hold Harold’s hand for as long as he wants.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments would be so very much appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks and hearts to StrictlyReading for the beta. <3


End file.
